Paste your do
Holmes sat awkwardly on the armchair. He knew Watson should have been back from her errands over an hour go, but she wasn't. He didn't want to think of what might have happened, but he couldn't stop thinking about who could have stalled her, stopped her, hurt her.
The front door banged shut, as a female figure came through the vestibule. She was taller than Watson, who loved her high heels. This woman, however, wore black leather stripped boots that reached her thigh where a tattoo crawled up her porcelain skin and vanished under a pair of ash grey denim shorts, frayed at the edges. Her upper body was almost nun like, he thought, no cleavage on show and wearing a heavy leather jacket. Could she have been through a trauma in childhood? Or was she a good girl playing a bad girl to make up for her bland personality.
'Sherlock Holmes?' The woman asked, from behind a closed black motorcycle helmet.
'Watson?' He tried her. Then stood up, and walked towards her. He just reached her height, albeit he was barefoot and she was not.
'You look different.' She noted.
'May I ask you to remove your helmet?' He swallowed in anticipation of who he could be. Every image of everyone he had known flew through his brain like a hurricane ripping through a filing cabinet.
Without hesitation, she pulled her helmet off, and dropped it against the hard wood floor. Sherlock took four steps back; the blood drained from his body and would have bled through the floorboards if it could.
'Irene.' He purged her name from a choked throat.
'It's good to see you Shirley.' Her red lips pouted.
'You've changed your look, again.' He couldn't wipe the look of disgust from his face.
Irene's hair had platinum blond ends to dark brown hair that was shaved on one side. Sherlock couldn't help flicking his gaze at her newly enhanced features: The small crumpled ears and sharp edged jaw and elongated neck that was more profound than he remembered.
'I had to. After you left me in the gutter, I had to.' Irene added.
'Left you? I was the one who was left in the gutter. I was the one who nearly died countless times with the addiction you bred within me with your games, heartless games, which I suffered, always suffering them.' He turned his back from her, collecting his emotions, before re-emerging with a tougher mask.
'Those childish games hurt you?' She walked towards the armchair he had vacated, and sat down, her legs spread provocatively as Sherlock looked down at her with bitter content.
'Russian roulette is not what one would describe as a 'childish game'.'
'Guns and knives: two things you could never handle with care.' She hissed.
Sherlock pulled one of the odd chairs from the table and sat facing her. He found his eyes wandering up her inner thigh but stopped when he noticed numerous needle marks that were peppered around the area.
'You've gotten clean too.' He smirked.
'Just two months.'
'How did you find me? Or was I easy to track?'
Irene reclined into the chair, and crossed her long legs.
'When I found out you had left London, I knew it couldn't have been your choice. You hate flying anywhere, even if it's for pleasure.'
Sherlock writhed in his chair slightly.
'My father bought me a cabin on the QE2 with a gaggle of security; they made sure I checked into rehab.'
'How thoughtful, your father.' Irene quipped.
'Far from it, you know more than most.'
'I spoke to your brother when I found out where you were. He was on safari, has been for quite a while, he didn't know you were here, in New York City.'
'I don't want to see him.' Sherlock brushed his beard.
'You do. I know all your 'tells', I can practically see your heart pumping the adrenaline around your beastly body as I speak.'
'You cannot stay here. Go sell yourself in Manhattan.' Sherlock erupted from the chair and stood behind it, gripping the back.
'I just came to see if my source was true.'
Sherlock's eyes widened, and his grip became tighter, beads of sweat fell from his forehead.
'Do I sense fear? You played with the devil-'
'You danced with him, willingly.' Sherlock fought back.
'-I just need to switch on my mobile phone, and he will know where you are.'
'If only my debt was payable with sex, like yours.' Sherlock pushed the chair to the side, and decided not to hide anymore.
'I had to do a lot worse, and you know it.' Her eyes welled, but Irene kept the tears from falling.
Sherlock stood down, his body loosened and face fell. The mast of deduction already knew what Moriarty had done to his oldest friend, and he knew not to probe any longer.
Irene dug into her leather pocket, and retrieved the mobile phone. She paused as he looked at it with worry.
'He has waited for a long time for the final showdown. He has his weapons, an arsenal.' She stood up and walked towards a now quivering Sherlock.
'You and I know there is nothing any of us can gain from it. Are you prepared to lose everything? I will only turn it on if you are ready.' She slowly pushed her hands through his arms and hugged him lovingly, and he reciprocated. Smelling her hair softly, the scent of peaches immediately transported him back to the abandoned squat he first found her inside, the first time he injected.
'We could never have been together, you and I. We were simply too volatile a person.' Irene whispered into his ear.
Pulling away from each other, she walked passed him and picked up her motorcycle helmet, and walked out of the Brownstone. Sherlock was left with just the lingering scent of peaches.
Outside on the steps, Irene looked up and down the empty street. She pulled out the phone again and without thinking twice she turned it on. Leaving it concealed in a flower pot on the top step, she wiped away a tear from her face and put on her helmet.
Joan Watson parked her car, and watched discreetly as the motorcycle blew past her, almost breaking her side mirror.
Sherlock heard the door again, and wiped away a tear. He turned and saw it was Watson with a perplexing look on her face.
'Some hell's angel's wannabe nearly tore my mirror off, anything to do with you?' She asked innocently.
'Me?' His voice rose.
'I was joking.' She added. 'What's wrong?'
Sherlock turned away from her, and picked up a box of cold case files and stomped up the stairs. Leaving Watson in the lurch, again.